There Are No Words
by Mint Pearl Voice
Summary: "They hardly ever speak to each other in full sentences anymore. They don't need to." Cinna/Portia, rated T for character death.


By the time their last year of design school rolls around, they hardly even speak in full sentences to each other anymore. They don't need to.

It's "What if we…" and "How about…" and then one of them will grab a sketchpad and start drawing as if their pencil has flames for an eraser, or drape a length of silk over a dummy, adjusting the fabric until it forms rippling waves.

And then: "Well, I was thinking more like…" or "No- it's sort of-"

Portia tugs the pencil and sketchpad from his hands without so much as a by-your-leave. She'll curl up against whatever's closest to hand- a wobbling easel, a large urn with a potted plant, a temporarily halted maglev train- and redraw his lines, turning the sweeping strokes of a hastily sketched idea into a neat outline with notes on textures and patterns and where the heck they'd purchase their supplies, anyway- would it work better to scour the vintage stores for an existing

Cinna allows his hands to race past his head. He designs on the dummy, sometimes on the model, much to the skeletal girls' chagrin (Portia can never help but laugh at their increasingly miffed expressions)- pinning, folding, tucking, and it's like one of those holographic images that looks like nothing at all unless your eyes focus in the exact right way. Portia's thoughts race as she tilts her head this way and that. She makes a game out of trying to figure out what he's doing before he accomplishes it, trying to see what he sees. Her brain zips from color to line to ornamentation, and then when she figures it out it's so perfectly simple she can't believe she didn't realize it earlier, but her triumph matches her pride.

By the time their tormentors decide to dispose of them, they hardly even speak in full sentences to each other anymore. They don't need to.

It's "Hey, umm- you-" and "Nonononono-" and then one of them will hold the other until tears give way to silent sobs and attempting to catch a decent breath, or, cursing almost silently, try to unpick the knots that have been holding the other's arms over their head for the past nearly-two hours.

And then, "Shouldn't let them get to me." Or "Don't."

Cinna is stoic for Portia's sake, no matter how many times she tells him that he doesn't need to be. His façade falls like a curtain the night they amputate all his fingers. They've neatly cauterized the wounds, given him enough morphling so that he'll stay conscious and reasonably lucid through the muted pain; nevertheless, he cries on her shoulder, silently. His shoulders shake.

Portia yells until her throat closes up whenever one of her interrogators asks even the most mundane of questions, wordless high-pitched shrieks and snatches of nonsensical pop songs. When Cinna finally manages to untie her, she collapses to the ground, taking deep gulps of air to teach her crushed and paralyzed lungs how to breathe again. He cradles her face until she finally raises her eyes to meet his; she tries to smile, but the mere act seems to open the floodgates, and she bursts into tears. Cinna rubs her shoulders, careful to avoid the bruises as much as possible.

They hear the commotion before what's going on. Exclamations of disbelief, hastily shouted orders- then the clatter of running boots and shouts of "For the Mockingjay!"

"We did it," Portia whispers through cracked lips, her eyes glassy with tears, and even though he hasn't eaten more than a few bites at a time in days, Cinna wonders if now would be an appropriate time for their first kiss.

One of the soldiers flings the door open. He shoots Portia first, one clean bullet straight through the chest; a shout from further down the hallway makes his hands shake, so he shoots Cinna twice, once just below his collarbone and once in the thigh. The door slams closed. Pain blossoms across Cinna's chest, followed by a rapidly expanding rosette of blood- what an interesting effect, a faraway part of him observes interestedly, I wonder how we could get that on a dress- before Portia's whimper brings him back to the present. He drags himself across the room to cradle her surprisingly light body in his arms; she's barely breathing. So this is it, he thinks, with a calm that surprises himself. This is where it ends.

But the Mockingjay lives.

Portia's eyes flutter open. She touches her wound and stares into his face. "Cinna, I-"

"Shh," he whispers, brushing a kiss across her lips. "I know."

Portia dies under fluorescent lights in a room with two drains set into the white-tiled floor. Only after she breathes out for the last time does Cinna close his eyes and allow unconsciousness to bear him away.


End file.
